A Photo Album
by ArdiChok3
Summary: Have you ever wondered how it's like to be erased from someone's memory for good? Well, I did. And I have got a whole album of photos to tell you my story from when I was sixteen. Some pictures will be happy, some will be sad. You've been warned.
1. Picture One

**A/N: **I absolutely love USUK, and I know my mind won't be at peace until I've done something about this fandom of mine. AU, mind you, and other pairings might be mentioned here as well.

Alright, then. Here goes nothing…

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**A Photo Album .x**

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**Prologue**

What if you wanted to embrace a person, who had never even remembered you in the first place? Or visit him every single day, even though it's a _fact_ that you would be a stranger to him the very next trip? You might be frowning and thinking, "Hell, why would I like a guy like that in the beginning, anyway?" You've argued with him too many times, it seemed that there should be no reason you would want to remember or be remembered by him. He was arrogant, haughty and foul-mouthed, and you _detested_ the way he criticizes your deeds. And somehow, you reverse the time in your mind and find that you were wishing for this person to be like that again.

The answer, for me, couldn't be written in a couple of sentences. Because even if it was possible, there would still be the absence of a hundred memories and thoughts unspoken in what would be like a book for that year—a chapter for each new day. No, a few sentences couldn't sum it all up.

So, how would you feel if you wanted to cling on, so desperately that if you lost grip you may as well fall into a fathomless pit, to that person who wouldn't remember you at all?

Believe you me; you wouldn't be able to answer this question in one sentence if you've felt anything like I did.

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**Picture One: The Day we Met**

First times usually last long in your minds, right? Well, at least that's what I heard them say. Whether it was your first day at school, first pet, first bicycle lessons, first love—though I intend not to go that far—they all seemed kind of impressive and awesome every time you've seen, done or owned something new. Love, though, for me, is pretty darn useless. Despite most people claiming it's the best thing that could possibly happen to a person, I think it only causes heart-aches and tears and all of those unpleasant stuffs. That is, if the person you fell in love with happens to be the 'wrong apple on the tree' or something.

But anyway, more on that later.

So like I said, first times could either be very exciting or very scary. Now, I'm not implying I was ever terrified of anything, new or not. If I was ever frightened, it had to be an extremely awful monster or sight to make this guy quiver down to his toes. I remember my Mom telling me how I rarely cried when I was a kid. Instead, I made this sort of gurgly chortle, complete with a proud grin, whenever I tipped the food off my bowl or went to potty or whack someone on the head with my bottle. And then she told me how my Dad—bless that old geezer—taught me how to flash a thumbs-up; my first and most commonly-used hand motion up until now.

That was one-and-a-half decade ago, though. Now, I'm Alfred F. Jones, sixteen years of age and an endeavouring junior at Westfield High. Freshman and sophomore was history, and I was no longer looking up at the whole of the high school's student body. I had the chance to look _down_, for the second year.

Excitement rushed through my veins as I strode through the entrance door of the building. Inside, I was greeted by the buzzing voices of a hundred students as they bustled through the hall. They were all talking, murmuring, shouting and exchanging news since the two months of freedom passed by. The stench of new paint wafted through the hallway, indicating that the school had been renovated for over the summer.

Somehow, I felt glad summer was over. Not that I was the kind of guy who was eager to start school or anything, but spending the whole summer helping your Dad with his fishing business could be a total _drag_. Especially when you could head out there and hit the beaches and surf like a hero would surf. I mean, I did go to the beach, twice in the summer. But it was only to pick up more baits and equipments from the Fishing Shack along the side of the beach.

"Hello, Alfred!" came a familiar voice from behind. I swerved around and saw the brown, shaggy haircut of a dear, old friend. I smiled.

"Hey there, Toris!" I exclaimed, patting the guy on his shoulders enthusiastically. "How's it going? How's summer? Everything alright there?"

Toris nodded, smiling warmly at me in return. "Mm. It was okay. It was cooler in Lithuania than in here in summer, though. You?"

"Didn't do much this year," I said truthfully. "Our lake had so many visitors that the part-time fishing business didn't seem part-time at all," I shrugged nonchalantly, cocking my head left and right as I searched for other familiar faces.

"Oh. Well, at least your lake made some business this summer," Toris chuckled, clutching the strap of his school-bag. Now, Toris Lorinaitis was a nice boy in my year, who enjoys counseling and giving support to people in distress. You're depressed about something; go see Pep-Talk Boy. The only flaw, maybe, was that he spends too much time ensuring everyone was walking on a path of daises and rainbows, while he himself was straying too far over to the dark side.

"I guess so. But your vacation sounds a lot more awesome than mine," I pouted.

"Nah, you don't know that. Anyways, I gotta go. Feliks might be looking for me right now. He still owes me thirty bucks from June, you know?" he mumbled sheepishly, muttering a small 'See ya' before vanishing into a corner.

… Sure, I suppose spending your summer twining maggots on fish-hooks and getting rid of yucky bits in the lake would be better than, I don't know, flying to some place like Lithuania or something.

I sighed, and decided to hunt down my friends since freshman year. Classes start in half an hour, so I supposed a little search wouldn't take too much time. And besides, the billboard just outside the Sports Hall would tell who was in which class, so it shouldn't be a problem even if I didn't find them.

Which reminded me, I had to know which class I was in for the rest of the school year.

Finding the billboard was an easy task. For one; this was my third year of high school, so I knew where everything was in the blocks and buildings. For two; it was the only area where a third of the student body would gather up in the first day of school. And for three; whoever insisted on decorating it made it have a purple frame, with flashy glitters and what-not embroidering the edges of the glass case.

I mean, who would make a billboard with a purple frame?

Getting to the board was the harder job. There was a horde of students swarming around the board, eager to see the class lists pinned all over the display case. It seemed almost impossible at first to actually touch the glass protecting the board, looking at how crowded it was around it. I had to elbow people out of my way, occasionally getting nasty glares from these disgruntled students. It was hard to breathe in the middle of the throng, but eventually I made it to the billboard, only to have my cheek slammed against the cool, glass case. I raised my head up slightly, searching for the list of the eleventh graders.

_Jones, Alfred—11B_

_A-ha! _Now, how about good-old Toris?

_Lorinaitis, Toris—11A_

Shoot. Oh, well, there had to be other buddies in my class. How about Feliks Lukasiewicz and Matthew Williams?

…

Or, so I thought. It seemed that after I've read the list of the eleventh graders, my closest pals were dispersed apart in different classes. I'm not saying that I didn't have any friends in my class. I adjust well with anyone—well, _almost_ anyone. I had Kiku Honda, a diligent and polite boy who was a few months younger than me. He's nice and quiet, with enviable skills in workshop and art. But I couldn't help and wonder if I was the only one who thought he was a little _too_ serious? Not that it was a major problem.

Then there was Feliciano Vargas, an optimistic boy with a gift in the arts and crafts. You could easily make friends with him, and he would be delighted in keeping you company for the rest of the day or so. Sometimes, however, if you start a conversation with the little guy, you may find that your words just don't make any connection with his speech at all.

Disappointed slightly at the forms, I swept around and pushed myself through the crowd again. There was still time before classes start, and I would still be able to search for the others. Perhaps they were frolicking around the gym, or cafeteria, or maybe I had already passed them in the halls without my knowing. We never had a place to stay put, you know; we were the 'nomads' of the school. Sometimes we would be in the cafeteria, the football pitch or maybe even in the library (God knows why we even hang out in that place sometimes). So, locating the group was a rather difficult thing to do in a school like this, you see.

But I decided, without a second thought, to head out for the pitch. I didn't know if they were there or not—in fact, I had _least_ expected them to be hanging around the field in the beginning of the school day. My friends weren't really the type of people you'd find hanging around places where the jocks and cheerleaders do their stuffs. So I guess you could say I went out merely to explore the school. See if there were any changes since the previous year.

The pitch turned out to be as ordinary as always. The bleachers where the spectators sat were set up on the left side of the field, and somewhere at the end of the pitch were the small blocks used as storage sheds for sports equipments. It wasn't a big pitch, but big enough to play small-size soccer games, baseball and whatever. Not properly-scaled, you know what I mean?

I could smell the freshly-trimmed grass and recently-painted bleachers, but other than that, nothing had changed at all. Which wasn't an entirely big problem for me; I saw no reason why it should be improved in the first place. As long as I could use it to play baseball, there shouldn't be any problems, right?

Oh yeah, I hadn't really mentioned that I liked baseball, haven't I? Well, I like baseball, so there.

It was actually a lot emptier there than I imagined it would be, too. I thought that I would see groups of students spread apart on the pitch or on the bleachers, filling the field with life or whatever. But it was silent, and the only sound you could hear were the chirping of birds and the sigh of the autumn breeze. Perhaps I wasn't allowed here. As far as I can remember, we were actually allowed to tread into the fields and gardens and classes on the first day in high school. Anywhere, except for the library and a few labs, that is.

But then, I must've missed a few things, since I never remembered going to the pitch first thing in the morning.

I searched the entire field for the familiar faces of my old friends, but it was to no avail. No one was there, and I knew if there was anybody, he wouldn't be the person I was looking for.

I started backing out from the pitch and made my way to the school building, when a movement twitched from the corner of my eye. I swerved my head to the right and saw a boy sitting on the bottom corner of the bleachers. He had messy, blonde hair and a pair of odd, bushy brows, and he looked so engrossed in the small book he was holding that he didn't seem to see me flash a smile at him from where I was standing. I saw him a few times at high school since freshman year, and since I never saw him in my grade, I figured he must be a senior.

"Hello!" I said, beaming. Because 'hello' was what people would say to make a person feel welcome.

I didn't receive a 'hello' back, though. Instead, he shook slightly at the sudden utterance and looked up at me as if I had just disturbed him in the middle of a captivating murder case. Then he simply nodded, and glued his eyes back to the book.

So much for first impressions.

"Good day, huh?" I asked feebly, raising my voice a little. Heroes don't back out easily, even when somebody regarded them like that.

Bushy-brows looked up from his book and gave me a wry smile. "I suppose."

"Nice book you got there."

"Thanks."

Looking at how brief his responses were, I figured he was not in the mood to be chatting with a junior like me. I nodded slowly, stuffing my fists in my pockets. I smiled at him, even if I knew he wouldn't be able to see me by the book on his lap. Seeing how natural he looked sitting on the bleachers, I guessed it was not forbidden, after all, to visit the pitch at this time.

I inhaled slowly, and ascended the steps up the elevated bleachers. The stairs ran down the middle of the bleachers, separating it in two sections. The spaces between the rows of extended benches were narrow, but just enough for a person to squeeze through the rows. I turned my back around to face the field and let out a breath of admiration. From up here, the field looked endlessly vast and green—a sea of a lush, emerald hue which touched the soft, blue sky. It was the kind of sight which made you feel like running around non-stop without a single care in the world.

"It's very nice around here, isn't it?" I called out to Bushy-brows, who was sitting somewhere down the lower seats. He ripped his eyes from the book and turned his whole body around to see who the addresser was. I could've sworn the guy was rolling his eyes, looking rather irritated when the only person he saw was me.

"Sure. If you say so," he shouted back. And then he averted his attention back to his book again as if it was impossible to last a second without reading a sentence.

"Do you like running around here and there sometimes?" I asked. "I mean, it feels so free and awesome, like, you're flying on a jet plane or whatever—"

"No. I. Don't."

I frowned, though my lips stayed in a determined smile. He really wanted to be left alone, I could tell. And I was really, truly bothering him. Maybe he was giving me hints that I should really leave for classes. Maybe he was plotting to do something, unseen by any human eye in the field.

That could be why he had to pick the loneliest area of all places.

"What's your name?" I blurted. I couldn't help it: it was just something one would ask whenever they were intrigued by someone new, you see?

Of course, I must have crossed the line because he abruptly shut his book and stood up to depart for the school building. I could practically hear the slam echoing through the pitch when he was closing the damned thing.

"W—wait up!" I exclaimed, immediately sprinting down the steps towards Bushy-brows. I hated being the only one left in an empty place. "Can you hold on for a minute?"

But not once did he stop to look back. Instead, his pace grew more rapid at the sound of my footsteps until he was somewhat between a walk and a jog. I gritted my teeth in annoyance. Why was he so insistent on running away?

Something white caught my eye, and I paused to see what it was. It was something round and white, and it was tucked securely in the space beneath a seat of the bleachers. I flicked a glimpse at Bushy-brows, who was now hovering dangerously close to the entrance door. I gulped, and stooped to all fours and seized the object rather hastily.

It was a baseball. A simple, filthy baseball which must have landed there at the last game the year before.

I stood up and dusted my knees, looking up to see whether the guy was gone already. True to my words, his hand was already reaching out for the handle, fingertips brushing the white coating of the lever.

"Hey!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. For once, he halted, and cocked his head at my direction for a few moments. "Can you catch this for me?"

And then I let him have it.

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**A/N: **Thank you for taking your time reading that! I know, the ending was kind of messy, huh?

Some of you might have already known where I may have got the storyline from, and where this story would go. Rather cliché, really, but I guess I could give a shot with the plot.

Inspired by the Korean movie, a Moment to Remember.

Reviews are appreciated!


	2. Picture Two

**Author's Note**: Thank you so much for the reviews and alerts! I'm very sorry for the long update. Updates may take more than two weeks, no matter how long or short the chapters are. Sorry for that!

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**Picture Two: Bushy-brows Kirkland**

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Frankly, there were many things I hadn't expected on my first day as a junior. For example, I never saw the fact that I would miss the Welcome Assembly and would be unable to see my friends. I never thought that I would receive a hundred lashes on the first day of school, all coming from one, incredibly sharp-tongued person. More importantly, I had never expected myself being inside the nurse's office and getting completely _suffocated_ beneath the glare of a certain, bushy-browed boy.

Oh, Bushy-brows was fine, all right.

It was me who had a lump swelling on the front of my noggin.

_Smooth._

"Just keep this ice-pack pressed on your head, alright?" said the nurse, applying pressure to the frigid pad against my temple. I nodded solemnly, grateful for the coolness which seeped through my skin. "And try not to collide into anything for a while. You might as well grow another head, then."

I laughed lamely at these words. The nurse was a petite and rather pudgy lady, who always had her straw-coloured hair tied up in a bun. She was very kind and understanding, I remembered, and whether her jokes were good or not, at least she would try to ease down the atmosphere.

I caught Guy's stare and I immediately reduced to a hush again. "Sure thing, ma'am."

She shook her head, her expression turning somewhat grim, and scribbled down some notes on her clipboard. "Baseballs first thing in the morning. Can't survive without a helmet in the pitch, eh, Jones?"

And with a brief wink and a squeak of her shoes, she swept around and disappeared outside the door.

Of course, that only left me and Guy to sit in an edgy silence in the room.

Let me clear things up a bit: After I retrieved the ball from beneath a seat in the bleachers, I threw it straight at him—Bushy-brows, I meant—so that he would take it inside with him. It was a good aim, and he caught it well, too. But the thing I never saw coming was him actually throwing it _back_. So I was off-guard, and I found that Bushy-brows had an unbelievably powerful throw for a senior who looked thin and short in size. I _could_ catch the ball, mind you. But if it wasn't for the sunlight in my eyes…

And the trip to the nurse's office felt painfully long with him by my side. He kept on snapping at me, muttering things and filling the hall with fumes in his stride. At the very least, I think I've learnt that his favourite word was 'git'.

The refreshing smell of citrus sanitizer filled my nostrils as we sat in the nurse's room. There was this awkward atmosphere as we stayed hushed on our seats. The only sound able to be heard besides the tick-tocking of the clock was the sound of my fingers drumming against the arm of my chair. Bushy-brows just sat there glaring at me like hell.

"What were you thinking?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Huh?"

"What were you thinking, pelting that stupid ball at me without a warning?" he raised his voice. I frowned.

"Well, I was thinking you could probably catch it. That's what people do when someone throws something at them," I laughed, rubbing the back of my head with my free hand. "You didn't give me a warning when you threw it back at me."

"I was _confused_," he growled. "I didn't know what to do when you hurled the thing at me quite suddenly. It was a rather idiotic move, you know. I'm surprised you didn't receive a type of concussion."

"So, it's my fault that I have this bruise on my head?" I asked in disbelief.

"Technically, yes."

"Ya sure? Oh, whatever," I shook my head. I stretched my hands out to Bushy-brows, who was just sitting opposite me, and wore my best smile. "I'm Jones, by the way. Alfred Jones. But then, I guess you already knew that!"

He gave my hand a funny look as if I had just grown an extra finger. "Arthur Kirkland," he said. "You may call me Kirkland."

"Arthur Kirkland?" I echoed. I must've sounded slightly astonished since Arthur raised his brows at me.

"Yes?"

"I've heard of you before!" I exclaimed, leaning forwards on my seat. "Aren't you one of Francis Bonnefoy's gang?"

Francis Bonnefoy was a rather popular senior in our school. Popular, but for all of the infamous reasons, that is. One of the reasons why he was so well-known was because of his legendary 'swift hands'. Believe me; I knew what it was like to be touched by these hands. If you are in a tight and dense crowd, with the Frenchman only a few feet away from you, I suggest you keep watch of that precious ass of yours.

I must've said the wrong thing since his caterpillar-brows suddenly scrunched up in an irritated scowl. "I am _not_ one of that bloody wanker's 'gang'," he spat defiantly. I felt my eyes widen in surprise at this retort, but I let him go on, "In fact, I quite dislike sitting on the same table as him at lunch. He is absolutely _preposterous_, did you know? I would often wish I had never come across such a ridiculous twit like him."

"Then… Why do you even sit with him? Listen, just because I'm such an awesome dude, I'm gonna let you sit on our table today," I grinned, poking a thumb to my chest. Arthur's eyes widened and I didn't know if it was in surprise or horror, or both.

"It's not as simple as that, idiot! I would never sit with him if there wasn't any… Well, I just have to sit with him," he snapped bitterly. "This is something highly personal, so I advise you to mind your own business."

"Oh," I nodded, shrinking back into my chair. I wondered if this was the right time to be shooting more questions at the Brit. He didn't look like he was in the mood, what with those tense shoulders and that scarlet face and enormous, furrowed eyebrows. I swear, those caterpillars were practically meeting between Arthur's eyes that it looked like he had a single, furry unibrow on his temple. It took some of my strength to hold back a laugh.

"Oh," I repeated. "Uh, sorry?"

Arthur shook his head sternly in reply. "You didn't mean to say anything wrong... I think. And also…"

He flashed a look at my bruising head and I saw him squirm rather uncomfortably on his seat. I somehow understood what he was trying to say and I gave a loud guffaw.

"What… this?" I rolled my eyes up as if looking above at my head, "Aw, this is nothing. Sure, it kinda throbs a bit, but after a while the pain disappears. It doesn't hurt at all if you're an awesome guy like me."

He snorted, crossing his arms. "If you were _that_ awesome, you could have at least caught the ball."

"Huh… You could've warned me first before you threw it back at me, you know," I sniffed.

"You threw it at me in the first place, you twat," he bristled. "Did you notice that the storage sheds were on the other end of the football pitch?"

"I _know_ that, Arthur," I fired back ("_Kirkland!_" he snapped). But what Arthur just said made me wonder: why _did_ I throw the ball at him in the first place? I shook my head and grumbled, "Whatever. But I can catch the ball, just so you know. I'm a _hero_ in baseball." Or, so I'd like to think. "The light was in my eyes, that's all."

"If I hadn't known any better, I'd say your palms had holes in them."

"Heroes don't have holes in their palms. Anyway," I paused for a moment, thinking how much of a failure my retort was, "I reckon we should get back to classes."

Arthur nodded and got up from his seat. "Yes, we should. Best idea you've got so far, junior."

I pushed myself up with ease and followed him out the door. We walked in the hallway side-by-side for a few moments with only silence trailing behind us. It was pretty much uncomfortable, and the spacious halls made our footsteps echo wherever we went. Arthur might be quiet, but that didn't stop him from keeping a distance and shooting odd looks at me as if he wanted to say something more. I must admit, I didn't like walking alone with the senior. It felt strange--awkward, even, and the walk seemed to last forever. My left hand grew numb from pressing the ice-pack against my forehead and I had to constantly switch arms to prevent muscle aches and forming frozen, purple palm-sicles. It wasn't after several turns and a walk through a small garden to reach the main block that Arthur stopped so abruptly that I collided into his back.

"Right, this is my class," Arthur said. I blinked and stared at the door which suddenly appeared in front of us. "I'm not quite sure how I'll explain my tardiness."

"I'd just barge in and crack a joke or something. Or make up a nice excuse of how I've rescued some guy on the way here, or I would just tell the truth and say that I've hit this unlucky—but still great—fellow on the head with a baseball."

"Oh, hush up. It was an accident; I'm sure the form teacher would understand," he muttered, though I could almost hear doubt in his voice. "It'll do you good to get lost now. At least you would have a brilliant excuse to be late."

"Err, alright," I smiled. "Cheers."

Before I could give him a final wave, Arthur's hand shot at me in a rapid blur, and I felt my head dive down with an unexpected force.

"Do me a favour, Jones," Arthur breathed, warm breath blowing on my face as he gripped hard on my collar. He had to pull me down slightly so that our gaze would be on the same level as each other's. "Don't talk about this incident and mention my name when Francis is around. It never happened, understood?"

Puzzled, I bobbed my head up and down in a hasty nod. "Okay, but why?"

"Just because," he said. He released his clutch on my shirt and gave me a lop-sided smile. "And I don't think we would ever have the need to see each other again, do you?"

I shrugged, removing the ice-pack from my forehead and stuffing it into the pocket of my bomber jacket. "I dunno. What if you need to see me again?"

Arthur snorted, placing a hand on the doorknob. "Goodbye, Jones."

"Arth—Kirkland?" I called out, after a few seconds of hesitation. Arthur stopped and looked at me curiously. "Um… thanks. For walking me to the nurse."

He looked away, though I could see the tip of his ear glow a faint shade of red. I secretly smiled at this, and I heard him say, "You're such a git, Jones."

And with that, he vanished through the door, leaving me lost in the hallway.

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When it was lunch break, the cafeteria was nearly packed. The line queuing up in front of the canteen was massive, and it took me a while until I reached the front. There were quite a number of selections on the first day of school; they called it the 'Welcome Feast'. Only, it wasn't anything like a feast at all. Sure, it had more menus like hot dogs and ice cream sandwiches (which were rarely served in my school for some reason), but other than that there was not much difference. It was a lame excuse for a new name.

"Like, that is one, _totally_ big bruise, Alfred," Feliks piped up from beside me, reaching out for a chocolate milk. I chortled and picked up my tray, surveying the cafeteria for a spare table.

I rolled my eyes, smiling, and said, "Yeah, I've heard. For the hundredth time." I wasn't kidding. Ever since I caught up with the Polish that morning, almost everything he could comment on was the lump on my head. Alright, I may be slightly exaggerating about the '_almost everything_' bit, but you get the point.

"And, like, how did you say you got it again?"

"Oh, you know exactly how it happened," I huffed dramatically, grabbing a pudding.

"Yeah, but I still find it totally unbelievable. Could you say the whole thing once again, please?"

"Well, if you insist..." I sighed, then began, "I saved this janitor from this thug at the car park, see? It was a tough fight and we were throwing punches everywhere. He whacked a fist right on my head. It was awesome. The janitor decided to go back home, though. He said he might need a day off."

Okay, so it wasn't exactly how it went, but Arthur practically ordered me not to relive the whole incident precisely like how it happened. At least, that was what I heard him say. I never mentioned his name, so I thought juicing up the story a bit would still be legal. Feliks bought the whole thing and looked awed whenever I did my storytelling.

"_So_ cool. Though I think things like this would be totally mentioned sooner or later by the headmistress," he said. The fact struck me on the head and I couldn't help letting out a nervous laugh.

"It might be, Feliks. It wasn't anything big, though. Anyway, where are Toris and Matt?"

"Toris should be around here somewhere. And Matthew… I haven't seen him around," Feliks replied, cocking his blonde head left and right. Matthew Williams was my Canadian cousin and he was rather shy and inconspicuous, you see. He was the sort of person that one could easily ignore; even the teachers wouldn't spot his arm when he raised it up and waved it for attention. Not many people knew his name, and people would often mistake him for me for some reason. The only thing that made him distinguishable were the polar bear-printed jacket and rucksack he always brought to school. In the warmer days, he wouldn't put on his jacket, of course. He would tie it around his waist or sling it across his shoulder, but he would always bring it with him.

"Okay. I'm just gonna search for a table," I told Feliks and left to wander around the cafeteria.

Only, I wasn't searching for a table at all. While I was whizzing through the cafeteria, I kept on looking for a certain French senior who would be sitting with a group of students on a table. I wanted to see them somehow, ever since I had the conversation with Arthur. It wasn't a difficult search, I found. Seniors would often be hanging around the tables closest to the enormous windows, which stretched from the floor to the ceiling and across to take up a whole side of the cafeteria.

Francis was sitting on one of those tables. Along with this albino European—I think he's called Gilbert Weillschmidt—and a few others I do not recognize. Arthur Kirkland wasn't there, though. I looked around and found the Briton carrying a tray of salad and pudding, heading towards the table by the window.

I grinned, and managing to balance my tray on one hand, I gave Arthur a wave. When he didn't notice, I decided to walk towards him, a wide smile on my face. His response when he saw me was weird. He caught my eye, I swear he did, but instead of giving me a wave or maybe even a simple nod, he looked away and swerved to circle a nearby table.

"What?" I breathed, stopping on my tracks. That sort of hurt. I watched him as he walked slowly, hesitantly, towards Francis's table and deliberately skirted the table to sit on the furthest end away from the Frenchman.

Then for a brief second, I saw his green eyes flicking back at me, uneasy.

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**Author's Note: **Right, so nothing much has happened here. Hopefully there'll be more things happening over the next chapters. And yes, I mix British and American spellings together. I'm not even about to bother hiding that, so sorry for any confusions!

And, because my mind is very slow, I decided to research if Westfield High actually existed and I laughed in embarrassment at what I found.


	3. Picture Three

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for the reviews! I've received many alerts and I'm really glad some of you are enjoying this so far.

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**Picture Three: Accusation**

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The first week of school went by ordinarily. We received our timetables and got introduced to a few new teachers, pupils and other staff members in school. Of course, that didn't mean we welcomed every one of these newcomers with open arms. My new math teacher wasn't someone I would call pleasant on first impressions. In fact, I thought he looked pretty strange, not that I was being judgmental on him or whatever. He would apply hair gel on his head, which I found weird because his hair was practically receding, leaving a mass of greasy forehead to stare at. His eyes were narrow, and it felt like you were being constantly monitored by him in class. I'm not saying he was this completely disliked old fellow; he could smile, and he may even _laugh_ when someone dares to make him.

Despite that, his lessons were downright boring. It wasn't such a big problem, but it made me see Fridays on the calendar as dull and unexciting as Mondays. Right at the end of the week, I had double math—_double math!_—before I could slack off and hang out in the weekends with my friends. His voice was monotonous and it sort of hypnotizes you to sleep. Math lessons were like sitting right in the middle of a sleeping chant.

Okay, so I may not be the most enthusiastic person academically, but I could say that I was rather competent in PE classes. I would often be chosen as team captain if there were small competitions in my class, and I guess I was pretty good at it. Of course, that didn't mean my side would always win.

Take a few days ago, for example. We had baseball once for PE, and I decided I could probably impress the teacher with my swings. Feliciano Vargas, the Italian I was talking about, was perched innocently on the bleachers that time to speculate our lesson. He had a sprained ankle, you see. Probably because he had stumbled accidentally over his own two feet in the summer; he had a reputation for bouncing jovially all over the place. He's very cheerful and honest, and hardly ever tries to hide his opinions and thoughts. You could always rely on him to always tell the truth: he almost never lied at all.

So anyway, I was on the pitch, a baseball bat firm in my hands. The pitcher—a quiet Swedish named Berwald Oxenstierna —pelted the ball at me, swift and powerful as I watched it cut through the air. Then I swung, nice and clean, and heard the satisfying _crack_ of the impact as the ball flew high several yards away…

…and landed off-pitch to one of the bleacher seats.

Well. Even the best players make some flaws.

I looked aside at Feliciano, feeling my face break into a sheepish grin. I was hoping he wasn't aware of how off-angle it was, but who was I kidding? The teacher noticed, and I could hear him tut all the way from the other side of the diamond. But instead of the shake of the head or the fake, polite smile I had expected, I saw wide, brown eyes and a broad, broad beam. If anything, Feliciano looked sort of _awed_, even if it was obvious how lame my hit was. I thought he was very easy to please.

"Well, uh, that was an unlucky shot," I laughed, swinging my bat aimlessly side to side.

Feliciano grinned and limped his way to the front of the bleachers. "Wow, Alfred!" he said. The exuberance in his voice was almost overwhelming. "I never knew your aim was that _bad_!"

Talk about something smacking you straight on the head.

Speaking of which, my bruise at the time hadn't completely healed yet, despite it already being more than two weeks since the baseball incident happened. Man, that senior could sure chuck a comet.

I'm talking about, of course, Arthur Kirkland. We never conversed with each other since I walked him to his class on the first day of school. Eye contacts were rare, and exchanges of waves were found non-existent. Not that I ever tried to greet him or something—maybe once or twice. When he said we won't need to meet each other again? Yeah, turns out it wasn't a joke. That didn't really matter much to me, though, I mean, the guy was a complete stranger to me, add to that the fact that he didn't seem too eager to befriend me. So I ask myself: why should I care?

Oh yeah, because the next time we intentionally came across each other, his eyebrows took the form of a uni-brow again.

It was on a lunch-break, you see. I was simply rummaging through Matthew's bag to inspect what he brought for lunch when I heard a loud bang resounding from our table. Surprised, I looked up, and saw no other than Arthur Kirkland towering above me threateningly. I recalled him wearing an expression that could've easily made me lose my appetite.

Nonetheless, I smiled up at him and said, "Why, hello there! How's it going? How's senior year so far? It's Arthur Kirkland, isn't it?"

The senior briskly grabbed the back of my collar and hissed, "We need to talk."

"Really?" I asked. I never really expected that. "Well, pull up a seat and I'll introduce you to my gang!"

"No, no! That won't do," he shook his head, his grip tightening on my shirt when I tried to shuffle aside. He then looked around at my friends, who were all watching us, bewildered. "Excuse me while I borrow Jones for a minute."

Without waiting for a response, he dragged me off my seat with no sign of effort at all. I wish he would stop being so unpredictably strong. I had to stumble a few paces forward before I could regain back my balance. "Hey," I began, confused. "What's up?"

Arthur swept around and gave me a dirty look. "I thought I told you not to tell anyone, you ignorant moron."

I frowned and rubbed my jaw slowly. This wasn't starting well. "Tell anyone what?"

"Bloody hell…you forgot?"

"Forgot about _what_?" I asked impatiently.

"About the baseball incident, you scatterbrain!" he groaned exasperatedly. Now, I remembered about the baseball incident, of course. The lump was still visible while we were talking back then. "You told someone, didn't you?"

"What?" I spluttered. "Of course I didn't! What made you think I did?"

Arthur took a short glance past my ear, and I knew instantly what he was looking at.

"The Bonnefoy dude found out?" I gasped, craning my neck to look around at where the group of seniors sat.

Arthur nodded and huffed seriously, "Unfortunately. I'm not quite sure how, either; _I_ never mentioned anything."

"Hey, I didn't talk about the truth either. I'm a _hero_; I keep my promises!" I protested.

He glared at me suspiciously for a second before querying, "Well, if you didn't tell anyone ("Which I'm pretty sure you did," I imagined him adding), then what sort of pathetic excuse did you create for that giant bruise of yours?" I wasn't sure if he was trying to be cunning and catch me off-guard or something, but I was certain he wouldn't find me blurting out the whole truth to anyone.

I grinned smugly and said, "I was fighting off a bad guy in the parking lot!"

The Brit amused me for a second by bringing his palm up loudly against his forehead. I furrowed my brows, bemused. "Isn't that good enough?"

"Jones, you idiot!" he grumbled. Thank God his voice was muffled as he slid his palm down his face. "Wouldn't there be witnesses to confirm if there really was a brawl between a junior and a thug in the parking lot? Wouldn't there be an announcement or report about this sooner? Won't the people you told the story to suspect how no one actually saw a fight like that? Oh, honestly… You really are a git."

"I was wondering when you'd call me that," I mumbled. Arthur narrowed his green eyes at me scornfully and clenched his jaws. I think he meant to scold and rant at me even more, but was holding it back. At least he had some form of self-control.

"Anyway," I said slowly, cautiously. "Can I ask you some questions, too?"

Arthur looked a bit taken aback when I said this. "Whatever."

"Well, I was wondering why it's such a big deal to keep this from Francis? I mean, if I told my friends the truth—which I haven't, so don't give me that look—we would all just laugh it off or whatever."

"Laugh it off? Oh, that's a nice one," Arthur barked out a sardonic laugh, loud enough for the people nearby to cock their heads in our direction, "That frog won't ever let me be if he found out I've done something disgraceful. I don't think I could remember when the last time I've laughed along with the twit was. But I think I'd fancy laughing at him once in a while, don't you?"

Bitter. That was the only word I could think of as I stood there and listened to him.

"I see…" I murmured. Though I really didn't. "So, d 'you want to sit on our table? You'll be more than welcome there. I think you'd like my cousin Matthew—he's awesome, and—"

"No, I don't think I'll be sitting with you for now," Arthur interrupted hastily. The change in his tone made me arch my brows curiously.

"Why not?"

"_Simply because_, Jones. Anyway, are you sure you didn't tell anyone?"

I nodded, and then stuck my little finger out to him. "I didn't. I swear."

He looked at my raised pinkie, baffled. "What's that for?"

"What, you don't know? Well, it's called a pinkie-swear, you know, when you lock your pinkies together and—"

"Never mind what it's for," he shook his head, batting his hand in the air. "I just needed to be assured that you didn't tell just about anyone the truth."

"Oh," I blinked, and flicked my thumb up. "Then consider yourself assured!"

"Fine, I'll believe you. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be banging my head against my lunch-tray as I sit on Francis's table," he sighed dismissively before trudging his way unwillingly to the cursed table.

… '_For now'_. That was what he said: '_for now_'. I wondered if that meant he would be sitting with us sometime later?

Then again, he probably won't.

"See ya, then," I called after him. Poor guy—it must be torture to sit on that table! Well, maybe, because that was how Arthur made it sound like. After a few seconds of watching the Briton move towards the table, though, I realized he may be exaggerating a bit. As soon as he reached his seat, there was a great buzz of laughter and greetings erupting from the table. But from the way Arthur blushed and snapped around the group, I could tell they were possibly teasing him and, well, making him feel absolutely… _choked_.

I had a sudden urge of wanting to just march in and slap them all across their faces. Because that was what heroes do, I think. Well, not just randomly slapping people, but rescuing damsels in distress—in this case, Arthur Kirkland. Alright, so he wasn't a damsel. But he sure looked distressed to me.

"Say, Alfred," a voice snapped me out of my daydream. I blinked, and found Toris standing by me, concern gleaming in his blue eyes. "What was that all about?"

"What, that? Err, actually…" I glanced sideways at the seniors' general direction, wondering what Arthur Kirkland would want me to say. "I have no idea."

---

When I got home that evening, things were out of place. Scratch that, everything was so organized it felt very foreign and abnormal to step inside my room. To begin with, all of my books, clothes and other belongings were stowed away neatly in the places they should be. The tops of my shelves were dusted, my bed sheet was changed and my floor was vacuumed. _I could see my carpet again!_ I thought, and that was definitely saying something.

Stuffs like this don't happen very often, you see. Usually, my junk would be scattered all over the place; shirts, comic books, baseball gloves… you name it, it's on the floor. Every day, I would be lying on my bed with my laptop on, and the door would open to show Mom standing with a mop and pail in her hands, her hair tied up and ready to begin cleaning. Then she'd take a brief look around the room from where she stood, grimace at me, and leave. Just like that. My room was messy enough to make even a mother lose her desire to clean.

No, stuffs like this happen when something special was about to take place.

"Err, Mom?" I began, examining the room. Apparently, she was too busy filing through my drawer of underwear to notice my entrance. Flushed, I quickly pulled her hands away and shut it close, receiving an astonished look from my Mom. "Ma, what in the world are you doing here?"

"Oh, welcome home, Al. I was just straightening up your room a little. I couldn't stand looking at the state of the pig-pen you were sleeping in, you know. Honestly, you should consider cleaning your room more often, young man; just what would others say when they see your mess?" She paused for a moment, tugging the knob of my drawer absent-mindedly despite me trying to push it close. "Your father wouldn't be pleased at all when he comes here and thinks how a tornado had wrecked your room to shambles."

"Yeah, but he's not here now, is he," I snorted.

"Oh, but he will be, Al," Mom murmured.

I perked up at these words. "Is Dad coming home?"

"Tonight," Mom said, smiling. "Isn't it wonderful? I just found out this morning right after you left for school. He wanted to make it a surprise, but just couldn't wait to tell us. How typical of him."

My Dad was a photographer, you see. He would travel all around the globe to take snapshots of everything significant that he would come across: people, signs, waterfalls, nature stuffs—the whole lot. And I must say; his works were brilliant. Some of his pictures were displayed in various books and magazines (not the girly ones, of course: he's more to the National Geography type)—some were even exhibited in major galleries! Yeah, my Dad was awesome like that. I couldn't ask for another person as a father.

I beamed at my Mom and chirruped, "Great! Can't wait 'til he comes."

I really couldn't. After a month or so without some male company at home, it gets pretty… Well, _weird_.

"I know, hon. Anyway, today I had to drive around town to shop for groceries, so I didn't really have time to whip up supper for you. You must be hungry… Is sloppy joe okay for now?"

I nodded and gave her a thumbs-up. "Okay."

"Good," she said, satisfied. "And try not to jumble things up again, will you? It took me a long time to shape up your room—it's not quite a vacation to clean up your mess."

"I won't," I replied. And the moment she left the room, I quickly ravaged through all of my shelves and drawers, cupboards and wardrobe to search for any missing treasures. That was one thing my Mom does when she cleans: throw out things that _she_ thought was no use, even if it wasn't hers.

After a few minutes of looking through my room, though, I found that I was missing nothing. In fact, what I received were a new heap of things piled up on my bedroom floor, and the probability that Mom would be shouting and yelling at me in the future. Maybe.

Oh yes, I also found the Yearbook I got from my previous year in high school. I've been looking for that for _ages, _you wouldn't believe how long it took me_._ I searched through every corner and every space, and then _bam!_—Mom found it in a snap and placed it neatly in a row of books on my study desk. Now, I don't know about you, but I find that kind of annoying.

I grabbed the book and sat on the edge of the bed, flicking through the pages aimlessly. It was very interesting, really: some of the faces had changed, yet they were still very similar. There were many messages around the pages, too: some were saying how much they were looking forward for the next year, some saying how much fun they had that year, and a few left their final goodbyes on the pages of the yearbook.

Then quite suddenly, I wondered how Arthur Kirkland looked like in the pictures. I never exactly acknowledged his presence before, so I never really cared whether he was in the yearbook or not. Maybe he had a grumpy face on when he had his picture taken. Or perhaps he was forced to make a smile, yet turned out horribly wrong. Strangely, I can't imagine him grinning sincerely in front of the camera. Though I could imagine him making an odd face, which was supposed to be a smile but turned out to look as if he had a toothache. The thought made me laugh out loud.

But when I got to the page, something seemed to whack me right between the eyes. Arthur wasn't scowling at the camera. He wasn't wincing as if he had cavity like I had expected him to. No, he was actually _beaming_. And not just with his lips, but with his eyes, too.

I looked up from the book on my lap and stared blankly at the walls, stunned. And for the first time, I wondered what it took to make the grouchy Briton happy.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, sorry again for the terribly long update. I'm such a lame updater I feel like hitting myself with a cushion. Some bits were boring and… 'choppy', weren't they? Gah. Please give me some suggestions and helpful criticism to how I can improve that.

Still, thank you all for reading this and reviewing, again. You guys are great! ^^


	4. Picture Four

---

**Picture Four: Our Silver Lake**

**---**

Our lake was called 'Lake Liberation' back where we lived. At least, for the people dwelling in Flotsam Town it was, and I guess you could say it was an excellent spot for sight-seeing and fishing. It was about five kilometers away from our house, and from there you could see the blue mountains bordering a side of our town, their tops illuminated by the radiant sunlight. We lived nearby the countryside, you see, so we see sceneries like this every day. The area around the lake was fertile, and the verdant plants and vegetation sort of complimented the natural beauty of old Liberation. It was called Liberation by the founders because that was precisely what people felt like when they first went there: free.

My father liked to take frequent trips to our lake. He would come up to my room with one of my baseball caps on, a camera hanging from his neck, and he would say, "The air is fresh outside, son. Why don't we go out to the lake together and just live a little?"

So we'd snatch our bikes from the garage and cycle a few miles out to our lake, me cycling slightly further ahead than my Dad. The ride, I remember, was very smooth and calming, add to that the picturesque scenes of trees, green fields and mountains in the distance. Yeah, Mother Nature is great that way.

And that was what we did two days after Dad arrived at the small airport we had. We went by the lake and started 'living'. It wasn't bad, really; in fact, going to the lake could be a quite relaxing experience. But eventually, you'd get pretty bored of it, if you visit it every other day or so.

"Hey, Al, what do you think of this picture?" he said, once we got off our bikes and started walking through the vine-shrouded track.

I looked at the screen of his Canon camera which displayed his newest picture (a collection of hydrangea flowers), raised my brows a little and said in an impressed voice, "Wow, that's so cool, Dad!"

And it was! Why, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't.

He flashed a proud smile at his camera. I swear; if that thing was alive, Dad would've claimed it as my little brother. "Thanks. Macro does a pretty good job when it comes to capturing small details. So, anyway," he looked up from his camera and beamed at me, "Tell me what you did while I was on my trip to Alaska. How's school working out for you this year?"

I shrugged. "It's okay. There were a couple of new students in our class. I tried going for the soccer or baseball team. I nailed the baseball team, but… I didn't impress the soccer coach enough, I guess," I laughed, kicking the soccer ball foot to foot as we walked along. I shook my head and went on, "So not awesome. And also, there's this British dude I came to know just a few weeks ago. His name's Arthur Kirkland…"

My voice must've trailed off for a moment, because the next thing I knew, Dad nudged me on the arm and prompted me to go on.

"Aaand..?" he started. "That still doesn't explain why your forehead's so purple. What did you trip over this time, son?"

I grinned a little, flushing. "I didn't trip over anything, Dad. In fact, it was Arthur who…"

I paused for a moment and thought. Surely, telling my Dad wouldn't be a problem at all, right? I mean, it's not like he would go off and gossip about it to his friends and the tale would somehow reach Francis's ears or something. Besides, Francis already knew, so what was the point of trying to hide it?

By the way, I wondered how he had found out about the baseball thing. Maybe he had spies running around the school? Anyway, it wasn't as if my Dad was the type to be gossiping with his friends about his son's life. Neither of my parents were the gossipy type, amen to that.

"…Who, err, hit me with a base…ball."

My Dad looked somewhat amused. "Well, that's not very nice. What did you do to the poor boy?"

"Dad!" I groaned. "I didn't do anything! It was an accident, Dad, _an accident_!"

But Dad wasn't buying it. He narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously, and I had to quicken my pace just so I could slip away from his gaze.

Alright, so I _did_ sort of irritated the Brit first thing in the morning, dragged him along with me to the nurse, made him late for class and led him to possibly hate his life forever because that was how he made it look like. Big whoop. He'll get over it soon, I'm pretty sure.

A few minutes later, we found ourselves in an open field, the breeze gently tousling my fringe as I stood on the edge of the lake. The water was of a silver colour, and it looked like a wide field of liquid iron. There were many reasons why sometimes I enjoy hanging by the lake more than the beach. Because, unlike it, our lake had this permanent smell of fresh earth and lavender; had the sound of bluebirds singing, the feel of grass tickling your calves, and the sight of dandelion seeds floating through the air.

Now, I'm not saying you can't find any of that on the beach, but really: when could you hear bluebirds singing and see lavenders blooming and chase dandelion seeds by the sea?

For a second, I thought about how pleasant and mellow Arthur might be if I had the chance to show him our lake.

"How did the fishing business go while I was away?" Dad suddenly spoke out from out of nowhere.

I turned around and gave him a thumbs-up. "It was great. A few tourists came, too. They thought the place was awesome and we made a lot of dough."

"Good," Dad murmured thoughtfully. "That's good to hear." He headed towards our fishing shack, the place where we stored the rods and baits for our customers. It was sort of like a cabin, with a wooden exterior and all. Our shack had a big blue sign which had 'Jones's Gold' written in golden ink. My Dad got inspired by tales of treasures being hidden beneath both sea and lakes, you see.

"You know, Al," my Dad said, unlocking the sealed door of the cabin, "Your Mom and I was planning a gathering here by the lake on Friday night."

"Really?" I raised my brows. "What for?"

My Dad replied, "A 'welcome home' party. How nice is that?"

That was sarcasm, by the way.

He laughed at my expression then shook his head. "No, actually… a friend of your Mom is coming over from Russia. We'd like to make them feel welcome on their third day in the States. I'm inviting your friend's—Toris, I meant—parents, too. Matthew will be joining along with us, of course."

"Cool," I said, nodding.

And the afternoon passed by with the two of us counting baits and lulling lazily by our silver lake.

---

The next day came with a little chill in the air. The trees were growing more tawny in colour and every ten seconds or so, a soft breeze would come and bring your bangs to flutter irritably into your eyes. Toris and I kept on shaking our heads and Matthew pushing aside the odd curl of his hair away whenever we came outdoors. It was a pretty funny thing to watch, I tell you. More people arrived at school wearing coats and jackets, huddling together when they went outside. That year's autumn went by colder than usual.

"By the way, guys," I started on our way out of school. "You heard of this lake-gathering thing we're throwing this Friday?"

Toris shook his head—probably because of the wind. "I've overheard my Mom talking about it on the phone. What's the occasion?"

I told them quickly about the arrival of the Russian family called the Braginskys and the possibility of befriending their son named Ivan.

"Imagine," I said at the end, "If he happens to be coming to our school. We can't get anymore international than that!"

It was true. We had people all over the world from Italy, China, Egypt, Sweden_, _Lithuania... and how many of you know a person in your school coming from Seychelles?

Okay, so maybe you might know a person or two.

Matthew smiled. "So, it's like a welcome party?"

I nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. You guys are coming, right?"

"Of course I am!"

"Sure thing, eh."

"Coming where?" The new voice caused me to lurch forwards in surprise, making Matthew and Toris snicker. Except, the voice wasn't new. It was familiar, firm and strong—but not too deep—and had this British accent in it—

"Arthur!" I huffed, scratching the back of my head. A corner of the senior's lips twitched (_holding back a smile_, I thought). "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well, school is done for the day and this is the way out of the school gates, so I suppose you could say that I am currently making my way home," he spoke in a smug tone. I looked at my two companions who had this uncertain look on their faces quite similar to the one I saw a few days ago.

"And you had to listen to us? Wow, Arth--Kirkland, you're nosier than I thought."

"Oh? And since when have you thought that?" he asked, half-challenging and half-entertained. "And it's not like you were speaking anything of importance. Your voice was a tad too loud, anyway."

I felt the heat rise to my face once more when I realized the Briton was right. "Your point?"

"You haven't answered my question," he smirked. This, I concurred, must be how Arthur is like when he's in a pleasant mood.

I pouted and muttered a brief ' 'Scuse me' to my friends before dragging Arthur away by his sleeve. When I was sure Matthew and Toris wouldn't be able to hear us, I began: "What do you want now?"

Arthur widened his eyes. "Beg pardon?"

"You know… another complaint or rant or whatever. And, just because you'd probably ask again, I didn't leak the truth out to Francis. _Again_."

"What?"Arthur shook his head, "I wasn't about to rant to you about anything. And the thought of asking you that question again didn't even cross my mind today."

"Oh," I uttered, feeling stupid. Not that I had ever felt stupid before because heroes don't feel stupid. With my shoulders sagging, I smiled and said, "You look like you're in a good mood today."

The Briton quirked a thick eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"_Meaning_, I may not know you well but you've always seemed gloomy and all, so this is a fresh look for you."

Arthur, however, decided to take this the wrong way and he snapped, "I _can_ be in a pleasant mood once in a while, Jones. Anyway, you haven't answered my question yet."

It took me a few seconds to rewind my memory and remember which question he meant. "Oh, right. Err, you see, there's this new family flying from Russia coming soon so we're holding this type of gathering by our lake on Friday to welcome them—"

"You've got a lake?"

"I thought you've been eavesdropping."

Arthur frowned. "I only caught you asking if they were coming or not to wherever. Anyhow, continue."

"But that's basically it!" I laughed at the way Arthur's face shifted in response. "Don't tell me you'd actually like to come?" I grinned at him lightheartedly. Arthur dropped to silence. Maybe he was thinking for a good comeback, but judging by the sharpness of his tongue, it shouldn't take him too long to think of a good retort. But what he said later on made me realize he may be thinking of something more than just a comeback.

"Am I allowed to come?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Oh, you heard me!"—his cheeks grew a fascinating shade of crimson—"I'm not about to go and repeat it for you."

Oh, I heard him, yes. I just couldn't believe it.

"You… wanna come?" I said, slowly. When Arthur responded only with a squirm, I rubbed my nape tentatively, suppressing a 'why?' inside. It was a weird question, and the fact that it was shot by this person made it even... _weirder_. "Well, I won't mind, really. The more the merrier, right?" At this, Arthur's face had exploded to the sheer redness of a tomato, which was actually very interesting to see. "But I gotta ask my parents first, just to let them know."

The senior shook his head quickly in a sudden change of mind. "No, no, forget it. I was just being absent-minded."

I looked at him quizzically from above my glasses. "Absent-minded...?"

"Precisely," Arthur cleared his throat, "It's not my place to enter this gathering without being invited, right? I mean, it'll be awkward if a stranger like me just barge in unexpectedly in the middle of an event."

Ah, how bizarrely gentleman-like.

"Besides," with the colour fading away from his face and his voice growing the same, bitter tone, the moment of warmth between us dissolved like one of Dad's effervescent tablets when he said, "I don't think I'd like to come, anyway."

Then he turned around and walked away towards the gates, leaving me to clench my teeth agitatedly in the chilly autumn wind.

It was then that I've learnt Arthur could really screw with a person's mind sometimes.

So what if he wouldn't like to come? I'd still have lots of fun hanging around with Toris and Matthew, not to mention there would be the new kid from Russia to keep us company. We'll have lots of laugh together. Who needs a stuck-up stranger around when you've got real friends, right?

Or, so I thought.

* * *

**A/N: **Wow, it's been a while. How long was it since I've last updated? I'm sorry, guys. And yeah, I had named a real school by accident and set it in my dream town. Sue me. Agan, I'm sorry. OTL Nevertheless, I'm trying to live by the saying that it doesn't matter whether you finish first or last, all that's important is that we finish, right? :D RIGHT?

And sorry for the OOC-ness in this chapter, argh. I always hesitate when I upload the chapter, so I check and re-do, check and re-do, and up until now I still have trouble with the consistency of the story. Anyway, hope that I would succeed in completing the fifth chapter for you all.

_-ArdiChok3_ (Haha, since when have I started signing off my A/N's?)


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